Page 38 of Worth Fighting For

“Thank you,” Shang says, walking past me. He pauses, then turns around. “You did well with the sheepshearing.”

“Oh.” I wasn’t expecting that. “I wouldn’t call what happened doing well—”

“That was James’s fault. You were doing well up until then.” There’s a new expression I haven’t noticed on Shang’s face before. It almost looks like…respect?

I’ve learned enough in school to know when to accept a compliment. Even though every part of me wants to bat away his kind words and diminish myself, I make myself nod and say, “Thank you. I really appreciate it.”

Shang nods. “Want me to stand guard so no one walks in on you showering?”

“No!” I yelp.

To my surprise, color blooms in Shang’s cheeks. “I didn’t mean—Uh, I’d obviously wait on the other side of the wall. I wouldn’t, like, look or anything.”

“Oh, I didn’t mean you’d look, I just—”

Welp. Now we’re both flustered. At least it’s no longer just me. “Anyway. See you around.” With that, I step into the shower and quickly shut the door.

Shang gets the hint and walks off. After making sure no one else is in the vicinity, I whip off my clothes and take the quickest shower, slapping soap all over myself before washing it all off and toweling myself dry in record time. Now that I’m clean once again, I can’t wait to tackle whatever else the Li family has in store for me. No doubt that whatever it is, I’ll end up dirty and humiliated once again.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

If there is anything I am good at, it’s sheer dogged determination. When I was little, I once got into a fight with the schoolyard bully. He was twice my size and easily bested me, grabbing my hair in one fist and yanking it until tears rushed into my eyes and streamed down my cheeks.Say you were wrong!he yelled, but though I was trapped, I resolutely kept silent, even as tears ran down my face in rivulets and snot dripped down my chin from the burning pain in my scalp. I’d stayed like that until he lost patience and shoved me to the ground. And though anyone who witnessed this would say that I got the shit kicked out of me that day, I felt like I’d also won, in a way. I’d managed to hold back from saying I was wrong. The tears and snot had been a physiological reaction I couldn’t control, but the words were something I could hold back, and I did, despite the excruciating pain. And ever since then, I have known I have what it takes to make it in a world that doesn’t want me to succeed.

This is the thought I cling to that evening, after my shower. Though my body, bruised and exhausted, begs me to stop and crawl inside my room to hide, I force myself to get back out as soon as I’m dressed. Thankfully, the Li family seems to have dispersed all over the ranch. It seems they have given up on our tour for now. Mushu is probably out there somewhere, taking a million selfies with the animals. This is my chance to have an undisturbed look at the ranch and distillery. I’ve learned by now that no amount of reading or analyzing can replace actually going around the physical space and learning more about it through observation.

The Li family ranch is beautiful and maintained with care and love, there’s no doubt about it. As I walk past the barnyard, I notice how healthy the animals look, how several of them approach me with a curious friendliness. None of them shy away, which means they’re used to being treated by humans with kindness. I smile and pet a nearby sheep. I’m getting used to them now, their bucolic movements, their guttural noises, and their earthy smells.

“Having a moment with Geraldine?” a voice says.

I look up to find Shang there, watching me with yet another one of his unreadable expressions. “Yeah,” I say. “Thought I’d come by and apologize to her for nicking her earlier.”

“That’s nice of you. Except that’s Sheldon. Geraldine’s over there.”

I roll my eyes. “Obviously I knew that. I was just getting Sheldon here to pass the message to Geraldine.” Why am I speaking with such abandon? This isn’t Ranch Mulan, nor Work Mulan, and it definitely is not Zhou. I need to focus. There’s something about Shang that encourages me to take off my masks, and I can’t let that happen, not when there’s so much at stake.

The smallest hint of a smile cracks Shang’s face. “When you’re done talking to Sheldon, what say you to a tour around the distillery?”

It’s all I can do to say, in as casual a voice as possible, “Sounds good. Just give me another moment with Sheldon.” I turn back to the sheep and close my eyes, drawing in a deep breath to recenter myself. I can do this. I can tour the distillery with Shang. I am not attracted to him or his dark brown eyes and that warm olive skin of his or those extremely kissable lips—damn it. I am not attracted to him. Nope. Not at all. Okay. I can do this. “Okay, ready!” I say brightly.

Like the ranch, the distillery is carefully maintained. Shang pushes a tall, heavy door open and we walk inside, escaping the fierce glow of the late afternoon Californian sun, into the large building. The distillery might as well be a whole other universe. As soon as I step inside, I become distinctly aware of the rich history behind this family-run whiskey company. It’s impossible not to when all of my senses are enveloped by everything whiskey-related, from fermented barley to smoke from the kiln to the impressive copper stills that look as though they were built way back in the industrial era.

It’s a humbling space to be in, because every part of it is so unfamiliar to me. It’s a completely different space than the ones I’m used to; I’m used to cold, hard numbers, so far removed from their sources that by the time they get to me, the product itself has become an abstract concept, less tangible than the numbers they generate. But now I am standing in the product’s territory.

As though reading my mind, Shang says, “This is one of my favorite places in the world. It’s where the numbers cease and the art begins. In here, nothing else matters. The market, or the shifting supply and demand, none of it matters. This is where the barley is soaked, malted, and fermented. The farmer doesn’t care about marketing or packaging; here it’s all down to pure farming for the love of it.”

I nod, absorbing the rich history of the art of whiskey-making through his words. As we walk deeper inside, I begin to understand why Baba might want to acquire the company. It’s obvious that everything here has been built and maintained with love.Maybe he attended one of their public tours once and hasn’t been able to forget it since?I smile at the thought. I can just see it. Baba is a hopeless romantic, after all. And none of the reading I’ve done on the science of whiskey distillation can compare to actually being here, taking in the massive copper stills that tower over me and smelling the rich, sweet scent of roasting barley blanketing the space.

“Come here,” Shang calls out. “This is a kiln,” he says. “It’s where we dry the barley. It’s also where we introduce flavors by using peat smoke during kilning. We can also get different flavors by altering the temperature within the kiln.”

“Oh, yes,” I reply, glad that some of my reading is finally coming into good use. “Like how high-nitrogen barley is steeped and then cooked with no airflow to create a caramel flavor.”

Shang pauses, studying me with a curious expression. “You’ve done your homework.”

I allow myself to give him a lingering look before shrugging and turning away. I haven’t missed the way a muscle works on the side of his jaw, as though he’s thinking something he shouldn’t when he looks at me. The same exact way I’m thinking things I shouldn’t be when I look at him. “It’s just a bit of general reading,” I say casually.

After a moment, Shang says, “Would you like to put your hands inside the kiln? It’s not too hot right now.”

“Oh, sure!” I step forward, feeling the warmth emanating from the kiln, and, gingerly, I reach out and touch the drying barley. “Oh my gosh.” I breathe in. An odd sense of peace overwhelms my entire being as I bury my hands in the smooth granules.

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